When There Were No Promises
by AnabelleG
Summary: Brennan's reaction when Booth is critically injured.


**A/N: I wrote this many moons ago, but it has always been a piece that has stayed with me. So, I decided to revisit it and perhaps apply some of the lessons I've learned in the months since I first wrote it.**

**The original inspiration came directly from "Into Your Arms" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. And while I don't know if 'enjoy' is the right word, I will say that I hope you find it interesting. - AnaG**

Calls to the lab on the pretense that despite everything the case still mattered. Endless trips to the vending machines for burnt coffee that no amount of sugar or cream could salvage. Muttered complaints to Angela about the cloying scent of the antiseptic cleaner that was somehow amplifying the smell it was meant to hide. Practical arrangements to borrow a pair of scrubs to replace her ruined clothing. Terse and uncompromising interrogations of any nurse, doctor or orderly that came within her reach.

She had protected herself as best she could.

But when she stepped into that room, when she finally saw him, whatever lies she had told herself were shattered.

Tubes and wires from every direction. Screens displaying incomprehensible patterns and numbers in surreally vibrant colors. A electronic tone from an unknown source, a rhythmic pulse overwhelming every sound but the frightening whisper of artificial breaths counted out by a machine.

In a world where things made sense, she would have been able to provide a passable explanation for most of it. The sounds, the machines. But not today. Today, all she knew was that they represented how close she was to losing him. There was nothing she could do but believe in the science that had produced the machines and informed the doctors. And for the first time in her life, she was questioning that belief, uncertain that when she needed it the most that it would be enough.

She moved closer to him, the side of her hip pressing into the unyielding metal railing along the side of the bed. She needed to be near him, needed to reconcile the figure in the bed with the man that she knew. He seemed so small beneath the thin blanket, so ashen against the institutional white pillow. Where was the light in his eyes, the steady play of emotion across his features? The uncompromising strength that had become a constant in her life?

How was she going to survive this without him to guide her?

Desperate for their connection, she reached out with an unsteady hand, resting her palm against the side of his face. Her knees almost buckled in relief when she felt the warmth of his skin instead of distant coolness. It was proof. Proof that he was still there and her mistake hadn't taken him away from her.

The guilty memory slammed into her, jerking her hand away from him. She looked at her palm, expecting to see his blood still staining her skin. There had been so much blood. All of it her fault. She put the pieces together too late; he was already on his way to find some scrap of evidence to fill the frustrating gaps in the case. She had tried to reach him, warn him, before the man pretending to be a reluctant eyewitness could see danger in a second visit from the agent investigating the murder he had committed.

She arrived minutes too late, the terrifying coppery scent of blood and cordite still in the room as she ran to find him sprawled on the ground. His eyes met hers with a chilling acceptance before they slowly closed.

She stood in the hospital room, her hand instinctively seeking his for support as the memories pummeled her. The impossible sight of the blood spilling onto his pristine white shirt. The echo of her own voice screaming for someone to help, to please help them. The sticky heat coating her hands, seeping between her fingers as she franticly pressed against the wound. The too shallow breaths against her cheek as she leaned close to him, demanding that he not leave her.

He couldn't. She needed him; he'd quietly worn away all of the barriers she had built over the years, revealing her heart and making a place for himself in the hidden, empty spaces. If he was gone, she knew she wouldn't survive the hollows.

Or the knowledge that she had never told him that she loved him.

The words remained unvoiced as something unknown pulled her from her thoughts. She was back in the sterile room, certain that she had missed something important, grasping for it like the last remnants of a rapidly fading dream. Then it registered, the ghost of a sensation in her hand. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that he had somehow felt her presence, her need, and had moved his hand against hers.

Blind hope grew as her eyes flew to his face, expecting to see him watching her with assurance in his eyes, a promise that everything would be alright.

But there were no promises; his face remained blank and unmoving, his body still except for the rise and fall of his bandaged chest.

She sank to the ground, not feeling the unforgiving linoleum pressing into her knees or the heavy warmth of tears tracing down her face. No longer able to think or reason, she rested her head against the edge of the bed and threaded her fingers through his, strengthening her connection to the one person that had shown her what was possible.

She didn't doubt what he would do is she were the one in that bed, caught in the limbo between death and life. What he would say if he was able. She owed it to him to honor his beliefs, for his belief in her.

The words, discarded and forgotten the day her parents had disappeared, were awkward and rusty in her mouth as she spoke.

"Please God…."


End file.
